The Seventh Mushroom
by Saucie
Summary: He was fifteen years old, he would be a tweenager in five years. Of course he was old enough to wander alone. He was a Took. Never mind that he'd been ticked off by Frodo Baggins, and was lost, and hurt, and alone ...


THE SEVENTH MUSHROOM.  
  
A/N: I am depressed. And I like Pippin. That should explain this fic.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"That's not funny, Peregrin Took, and you know that!" screeched his cousin, her hair dishevelled and her face red. "Get out of here, before I tell your uncle!"  
  
He picked up the apple core from the floor, grinning broadly, and was about to jump out the window once more – the threat about his uncle had scared him, although he did his best not to show it – when he slipped on the braided rug beneath the window sill and landed flat on his face. He scrambled up, ready to pitch himself out the window before the thudding footsteps outside could enter the room, but he had only pulled himself halfway through the frame when there was a ruthless tug on his ankle, and he gave himself up to the inevitable.  
  
"One more incident like this, Peregrin, and I will have you sent back to the Great Smials immediately, whether your father likes it or not! I know everyone back in Tookland is glad to be rid of you, but that doesn't mean they can dump their responsibilities onto me anytime they wish! If it wasn't for Merry, you wouldn't even be here in the first place!" His uncle, having dragged him off to a room he hadn't yet been to in Brandy Hall, stopped to draw breath.  
  
He had heard this recital quite a few times, and knew exactly how to deal with it. He was supposed to look contrite, and apologise in fumbling words – that made it sound more sincere, it seemed – and, of course, promise that he wouldn't get into any trouble ever again. He had learnt very early in his mischief-making career that when he said this most adults forgave him, although they didn't forgive his other faraway cousins.  
  
As soon as both recitals were completed – his uncle having used up all his steam and Pippin having apologised as repentantly as he could – he ran for the front door, determined not to let anyone see him again for the rest of the day, especially Merry's cousin Celandine – whose bath he'd just been throwing apple cores in. It seemed safest.  
  
Once outside, though, he had no idea what to do. He could go down to the village on this side of the river, and play with the other hobbit-children, but that didn't seem to be a good idea; he was fifteen, after all, and after spending all of yesterday afternoon trying to tell all the other boys and girls that he was not a child anymore, even if he wasn't a tweenager yet, going down to play hide-and-seek with them would seriously compromise his position.  
  
He decided that the best way to disappear for the day was to cross the river and get to the Marish, or Stock, which was right opposite, where the Stock-brook joined the Brandywine. Getting onto the Bucklebury Ferry, alone, at this time of the year when the river was deepest, would present a slight problem, but nothing he couldn't deal with. Thankfully – at least, for all those who didn't want him to drown – a couple of Brandybucks whom he hadn't seen before were intending to cross, and they saw no reason why they shouldn't take a half-grown, innocent-looking hobbit along with them, especially if he was a Took and was staying at Brandy Hall.  
  
What to do in Stock was yet another problem. He'd been here before, when his father was bringing him up from the Great Smials, but he had never spent more than a couple of hours in the town, and knew of no place to go or what to do. The possibility of getting bored suddenly presented itself in his mind, and those hobbits who could recognise a bored Took when they saw one did well to close their windows and doors and hope that theirs' would not be among the things that would be broken – because something definitely would.  
  
But surprisingly enough, nothing disastrous happened – at least not in the village of Stock – for Pippin had suddenly found a way to spend his day. He would follow the Stock-brook upstream, to see how far it went, and if it would actually start from the spring in the mountains in the Northfarthing it was rumoured to come from. The fact that this near-impossible expedition would definitely take more than a day never crossed his mind.  
  
His trek began smoothly enough. It took him over corn-fields, yellow and green, over small, intersecting streams – the dazzling blue a sharp contrast to the other colours around him – and through fields of nothing but flowers, which he felt very guilty stepping on. And the Stock-brook wound on and on, and if he hadn't been so used to running around, he would have been exhausted a long time ago.  
  
He had no food, but what was the corn for? Gnawing on one whole stick of corn, he jogged on, determined to have achieved something this day. He wasn't about to give up just like that. That was when things first began to go wrong.  
  
The fields had started to recede from the river now, leaving soggy mud for him to walk on next to the river-bank. He was a small hobbit for his age, and so had no difficulty in manoeuvring himself along this marshy strip of land, and he wouldn't have had any, either, if he hadn't heard that bark.  
  
He was scared to death of dogs. He had never let anyone know it – and never would, if he could help it – and he could have safely run there and then, but for his own pride. No one would see him run from a couple of snarling mongrels, if that was what they were – not even himself. So he stood his ground, aware of his hands clenching in his pockets, and beginning to take slow, measured steps forward, determined not to let himself run.  
  
But it wasn't good enough. The first bark was met by another, and, coupled with the sound of scampering feet, was enough to make him run as fast as he could. He tried to tell himself that the dogs probably hadn't even seen him, but it was no use – his legs were determined to take him as far upstream as possible, and he wasn't in a position to stop them.  
  
And then the dogs were on him. They hadn't been after him in the first place – he was just another of many wanderers along the stream, though he wasn't to know that – but the promise of a chase proved too much for them, and, quite convinced that he wanted them to follow, had been after him in a trice.  
  
He flung himself forward, but there was no cover – only cornfields on his right and the eddying water on his left. The first of the black creatures launched himself in a leap that would have carried him right onto Pippin – and would have resulted in the dog licking his face, if Pippin had waited it out. But he didn't – he did the only other thing that he could think of.  
  
He threw himself into the river.  
  
The water wasn't cold, and it wasn't deep, and the stream wasn't wide, but Pippin was a small hobbit, weighed down by his clothing, and hadn't the faintest notion how to swim. He splashed about helplessly for a second, until he saw the second dog throw itself into the water, too. Fear of the dogs overcame his fear of drowning, and, gritting his teeth, he kicked out at the dog, using his momentum to propel himself to the opposite side of the stream.  
  
The dog, its feelings hurt by this uncommonly harsh treatment, turned back and paddled to the side of the stream where its fellow was, and both, heads down, padded downstream for a while before turning into the tall corn fields. The spectacle would have made anyone feel cruel, but Pippin only felt like a victor. Dragging himself out of the brook, he lay down on the opposite bank, and, quite exhausted, fell asleep.  
  
When he woke, it was to a blazing sky, lit brilliantly red by the setting sun, with the cornfields glowing with gold and orange and red. Purple hovered on the edge of the horizon – the night was approaching from behind. But the beauty didn't pierce him at all. He needed to get back home – immediately – or his uncle would have him sent back to Tookland, whatever his aunt might say, and there was no possible way for him to cross the stream again. The water now glowed like blood, and was stained black if he stared into the distance. No, nothing was going to get him into that again.  
  
He turned around and began trudging downstream, disappointed, worried, and scared, feeling none the better for his sleep. The path had followed the brook on the right side, but here it veered off to the left – or his right, now that he was headed downstream – and he had no choice but to follow it. He knew better than to abandon a path – even when he had a river to guide him – when it was dark and he was, to a certain extent, lost.  
  
He was barely aware of a scuffling sound a little way ahead of him, when, to his utmost surprise, the road turned sharply left, and – unprepared for the right-angle bend – he walked straight into the darkening plants in front of him – and was even more unprepared for the loud sounds of protest that came from them.  
  
"Get off me!" said something big and warm underneath him, and he found himself pitched forward on his face, lying with his nose buried in the dark earth.  
  
"Ow!" he said in a muffled voice, as he was grabbed by the back of his shirt and pulled around to face whatever – or whoever – he had tripped over.  
  
"Now look what you've made me do!" shouted the hobbit that was holding him – a familiar-looking hobbit, with blue eyes and darkish hair. He gestured with his empty hand towards an overturned basket, and Pippin looked down at it, not feeling very repentant.  
  
"I didn't see you," he said, fidgeting. The hobbit was holding him by the front of his scarf now, so that his feet were dangling well above the ground. "I – "  
  
"Didn't see me – !" the hobbit echoed, looking angrier than ever. "Why, you little – I was right next to the road, how could you not see me?" He dropped him roughly on the ground, bending down next to the basket. Looking up to see Pippin still there, snarled, "What are you waiting for, then? Get lost! Go on – scram!"  
  
He wanted to say that he was already lost, but instead scrambled up and ran for the path, throwing a parting shot over his shoulder. "Your mother will send you to bed without any supper, you know, 'cause you're so mean to people!" It was the worst punishment he could think of, and it seemed to have an effect on the hobbit, because he stiffened, then picked up an apple and threw it at him with a snarl. It missed, and Pippin dived through the last of the tall plants.  
  
He didn't know how long he ran, but the sky grew darker till it was a misty purple, with no stars overhead. He didn't know why he ran, either – he must have left the hobbit far behind long ago, and why should he be so scared of him, after all? But he was upset about the scolding, more so than he had ever been when his father shouted at him until he was almost deaf, or when his uncle fished him out of the river last year and instead of saying that he had been scared that his nephew might drown, had given him a hounding the likes of which he had never experienced.  
  
The path turned and turned, and it got darker and darker. Light rain began to pour down, and – coatless and cloak-less as he was – he was soaked in minutes. His scarf was of little use, apart from keeping his dripping hair out of his eyes. He slipped in the mud and landed flat on his face, groaning, more than once. The dark, forbidding plantation had just given way to low-lying scrub when he slipped on something white and silky, and gasped. He picked it up, realizing that it was a handkerchief, with the words 'Frodo Baggins' embroidered in the right-hand corner.  
  
And then he understood why the hobbit had looked so familiar. It was Frodo Baggins, who had left Brandy Hall years ago, when Pippin was only nine or ten. He had no idea why he had left, or where he had gone, but he did remember that he used to shadow him everywhere in silent admiration.  
  
The shock of this had just begun to set in when he heard a bark again. In the dark, rainy night, it chilled him to the bone. Almost shaking with fright, he pocketed the handkerchief and ran for his life, scratching himself badly as he sped through the brambles and bushes. The barks grew louder, and, slipping and sliding, Pippin ran faster as well, uncaring that he was running in the opposite direction of Brandy Hall.  
  
The ground suddenly fell away in front of him, and he rolled down the hillside, caked in mud, with blood dripping from numerous scratches all over him. He was brought to a stop by banging against a sturdy wooden fence, and as he heaved himself to his feet, dazed, at the top of the low hill he caught sight of the silhouette of the two dogs – perhaps the same ones that had chased him before.  
  
Visions of being mauled to death by two savage, snarling creatures flashed through his brain as he swung himself over the fence and ran, whimpering as he slipped and banged his knee against a small rock. He tore his coat as it caught on a branch, and wriggled out of it, plunging headfirst down the rest of the hill. He landed at the bottom with a thud, battered and bruised, and almost sobbing with pain and exhaustion.  
  
There was a moment of blackness, in which his world faded, leaving him in the dark, and when it returned it wasn't quite in focus – all blurry and dreamlike. Vaguely, he decided he had hit his head, but his thoughts were sluggish and pain-filled.  
  
And then he was being picked up in a pair of strong arms, and he was being wrapped in some thick woollen blanket, and the rain wasn't beating down on his head anymore, and someone was exclaiming, "Why, if it ain't young Master Pippin!" It was a voice he didn't recognise, but at that moment he probably wouldn't have recognised anybody, and he was quite beyond caring.  
  
He was lifted up and carried for a while, and suddenly he felt the warmth of a fire somewhere nearby, and light glaring through his eyelids, and the pain of his injuries struck him anew, so that when he was set down on a rug beside the fire, all he could do was sob miserably.  
  
"There now, Master Pippin, it's all right," said the voice awkwardly, and a callused hand patted his shoulder. "You're safe as can be – you're on this side of the river, after all. We'll patch you up, set you right, and you'll be back home safe and sound in the morning."  
  
"No I won't!" he wailed, blowing his nose loudly. "That's not how it works! I'm lost, and my uncle will have me sent back to Tookland, and Merry won't ever let me eat cheese again, and – and – and I'm cold, and I'm hurt, and you can't fix me, and – and – Frodo Baggins scolded me too!" As if this was the last straw, he burst into tears again.  
  
He could have sworn that there was a smile in the voice when it spoke again, though it was full of sympathy. "There now, Master Pippin," it said again. "For one thing, you're not lost, that's for sure – you're right here in Bamfurlong, and I'm Farmer Maggot, 'cause it looks like you don't remember me. Fix you I can, and make you warm and cosy too, and no doubt I can persuade your uncle – Mr. Saradoc Brandybuck, would he be? – to let you stay. That sound better to you, Master Pippin?"  
  
"No!" he sobbed, although it definitely did. He remembered Farmer Maggot now – he and Merry had walked to Bamfurlong lots of times last year, but hadn't made any trips this time. Wiping his nose on the back of his dirty sleeve, he continued, hiccupping, "Merry won't give me cheese anymore, 'cause he said he wouldn't if I got into trouble again, and my uncle won't listen to you – 'cause he don't listen to anybody, and – and Frodo Baggins ~screamed~ at me!"  
  
"Master Frodo, eh? I hear he's back in Brandy Hall for a while. Right young rascal he used to be – and still is, in fact. Where'd you meet him?" Farmer Maggot, tall and brown and lean as ever, moved around his little hut, busy making tea.  
  
"On the – on the path," he hiccupped in reply. "I made him drop something – hic – by accident, and he told me to get lost – hic – and so I told him – hic – that his mother'd send him to bed without any food, 'cause that's really bad, you know – hic – and he got angry and threw an – an apple at me – hic – and I ran … and ran … until the – until the – hic – the ~dogs~ came."  
  
A cup of steaming tea was pushed into his hands, and it helped to dry the tears and stop the hiccups, so much so that – with a little easy coaxing from Farmer Maggot – he allowed his cuts to be washed and bandaged, and his dirty, grubby hands and face to be washed as well. By the end of all this, he was chattering away as usual, and Farmer Maggot, smiling slightly, was beginning to lay out blankets for him near the fire. When Pippin asked where his family was, he told him that they had gone to visit his mother-in- law for a while, and would be back in a week.  
  
Pippin had just gotten into bed, the shock having worn off enough for him to be ashamed about bursting into tears like that in front of Mr. Maggot, when something suddenly struck him, and, feeling that Farmer Maggot would know the answer, asked tentatively, "Um, sir? Why did – why did Frodo get so angry when I said that thing about his mother sending him to bed without food, sir?"  
  
The farmer stiffened, then said sadly, "Are you sure you don't know, Master Pippin?" When he shook his head, he continued, "You see, his mum and dad, they died seven years back, you see. That's when Mr. Bilbo adopted him, and took him away from here. Changed a lot then, he did – nice enough, but quite unpleasant at mention of his parents." His voice dropped to a whisper as he said, "Drownded, they were, right here in the river."  
  
"Oh." He couldn't think of anything else to say. He wondered what it would be like not to have all his sisters – annoying though they were – and his mother, and his father. No, he couldn't imagine. "But … he was angry anyway."  
  
"Aye, he would be," said Farmer Maggot, grinning suddenly. "He spent all day – harvesting – my crop, and you made him drop it all. Don't think he'd have appreciated it at all, you know, Master Pippin."  
  
"You mean," said Pippin in shock, "that he was stealing your carrots, and mushrooms, and lettuce, and … all that?"  
  
Farmer Maggot nodded. "Aye, that's exactly what he was doing. I know you pretty much look up to him, and all, but he's just a boy, in many ways. He must've been quite angry at you, I fancy, to scream at you like that – used to be quite nice to you little ones, far as I remember."  
  
"Yes," he said, looking up at the ceiling, still not quite believing that Frodo Baggins – ~Frodo~ Baggins – would actually steal from Farmer Maggot's crop. Seeing the disbelief on his face, the farmer's face softened a little, and he said, "If you wouldn't mind, Master Pippin, I'd like to show you something, you know."  
  
"Oh no, no problem, Mr. Maggot," he said quickly, jumping out of bed. "What is it?"  
  
Farmer Maggot handed him a coat and his scarf and led him outside, behind the brightly lit house and out into the pelting rain. Stamping through the mud and shaking water out of his hair, Pippin followed him to an old, gnarled tree, with branches clawing at the sky.  
  
"Look here, Master Pippin," he said, bending down and pointing at a cluster of white growth below it. "See this? These're mushrooms, some of my best."  
  
He peered at the ring of little stools, wide and flat. Some mushrooms grew at a tangent to the circle around the tree, and it was this line he found himself looking at. The seventh mushroom from the circle had been torn out from its roots, but a little bit of white was still visible in the dark mud – a little bit of root.  
  
"That's the one he took," said Farmer Maggot quietly, touching it with his brown, careworn hand. "The seventh mushroom. He couldn't help himself, really. It was my very biggest, and I was proud of it. Of one little mushroom, if you can believe that. But I'm glad he took it. I'm glad."  
  
Pippin looked at it. The seventh mushroom. "Why?" he asked.  
  
"Because it means he's still a boy," said the farmer simply, getting up and starting back towards the house. "Because it means that he hasn't lost the hobbit part of himself. He's different, yes, but he's still a hobbit. As long as he still can't resist."  
  
Back in the house, Pippin got back into bed, deep in thought. ~As long as he still can't resist~. It made sense, kind of. Although he really didn't understand how Frodo Baggins couldn't be a hobbit. How could he stop being a hobbit? That was impossible.  
  
And suddenly, before he fell asleep, visions flashed before his eyes. Frodo, looking happy and carefree. Frodo, looking happy, but with an underlying sadness. Frodo, with the same young face, but the eyes of an old, old man. Frodo in a crowd of other hobbits, some that looked familiar, some that didn't, but not looking at all like them. Not like a hobbit.  
  
The seventh mushroom.  
  
As long as he couldn't resist that, he'd still be a hobbit. He'd still be the Frodo Pippin had looked up to when he was just a hobbit-boy.  
  
Pippin turned over and fell asleep, smiling. He'd make sure Frodo Baggins never stopped liking mushrooms. Of course he would. He was fifteen, he was almost grown up … he could do it. Of course he could.  
  
All he needed was the seventh mushroom.  
  
He was too sleepy to remember that he didn't have it.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
A/N (again): I am even more depressed now. Oh, and if Frodo sounds out of character … well, wouldn't you be if your parents had died not too many years ago? (No, seven is ~not~ a very long time).  
  
Disclaimer: The seventh mushroom belongs to me, because Pippin didn't have it – and he made Frodo drop it, too, so that Frodo had to throw it away. And so I found it. Ha. Nothing else. Happy now? 


End file.
